


ode to my bathroom

by vrbatiim



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drabble, shitty prose, uhh writing about my bathroom? idk what to tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:47:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28742733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vrbatiim/pseuds/vrbatiim
Summary: stupid drabble about something that makes me uncomfortable





	ode to my bathroom

I firmly believe that the cold stone tile of my bathroom is the grounds of a sacred place. Many an emotional breakdown can be recalled from the dust under the sinks where I always forget to sweep. A single split-end hair left in the dust or the blood and water long soaked into the bath mat; there is always a trace of a memory I’d probably rather leave behind me. No matter how many times the sun has cast shadows through the window or how many times I wipe down the sinks, there is always evidence of something personally undesirable.

Memories cling to the grout and peeling wood accents like the black mold sticks to the silicone-lined corners of the shower. No matter how hard I scrub the plastic body of the bathtub, there remains a familiar yellow tinge. No matter how many chemical concoctions I put together to clean it, it will not rid of that hue.

On those days I wish to forget, I would clean up my bathroom to shift my thoughts. We wouldn’t have any gloves to protect my skin, so I’d deliver a silent prayer for my calluses to protect me. Some days, though, not even the thickest worn skin could spare me.

I would bring out the spray bottle of non-chlorine bleach and foaming all-purpose cleaner. I made sure to use them separately as I had already learned my lesson from a teacher borne of noxious gases. Next I’d start on the bathtub.

Spray here and there and in this cranny and on that wall, then go at it with the sponge. I’d lean over the side of the tub, so I could reach where I needed to, placing my weight on my stomach and scrubbing. The tile was unforgiving on my knees, and the hard plastic siding spared no mercy for my stomach either. Both of these things I would forget in time, but the chemicals on my hands I would not.

It didn’t sting at first. It was more of a tingling sensation, which should have troubled me, but I paid it no mind. I continued my work, as the water and bleach soaked into my skin. My skin would dry and split along the lines of my hands, not quite enough to bleed. The drying of my hands would make quick work of this, though.

Throughout these moments, a sense of nostalgia and uneasiness would dig its claws into the back of my mind. Like my wounds though, I never paid it any attention. No bodily sensations, nor sight of the cracks in my skin were enough to alarm me.

What finally sent me over the edge was the smell of blood and bleach on my hands.

I can’t recollect how I took notice, but I had managed to catch a whiff. My hands were already dry, but the scent lingered. It was metallic and harsh and just barely sweet-smelling. I remember it starkly. I distinctly remember the overwhelming emotions it brought with it. It was an unforgettable amalgam of panic and sadness.

The thing that I remember most clearly, though, was the inexplicable wave of fear that struck me.


End file.
